


sunstruck

by bissonomy (Macdicilla)



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Character Study, F/F, Getting Together, Loyalty, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Illness, Post-Going Postal, Pre-Railway, Repression, also Margolotta is obviously a lesbian bc she has a pet rat no further questions your honour, he's fine it's just heat exhaustion and he think's he's tougher than the sun, in the fucking sky, mlm wlw frienship, on holiday, pretty much everyone's repressed except Alina Heasteather who's here to be rude and fuck vampires, so many flavours of repression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 18:38:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20247469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macdicilla/pseuds/bissonomy
Summary: When two people have the same barriers to intimacy and neither of them can take the first step, it has to happen by accident.Drumknott and Vetinari stumble together while on holiday in Uberwald.





	sunstruck

☼

Over breakfast, there was talk of a hike up the Hildesridge. The view from the high rocks onto the valley below was worth seeing this time of year, Margolotta said. You could see the steam rising from the lake. 

“Poor unlucky fish,” she said, with no real sadness. “Every year for the past five years, it’s completely dried out by mid-summer, baking the carp alive. But by that point they’re only fit for dogs and horses. You’re lucky there’s still some lake left to look at this time of year.”

“I see,” said Vetinari. 

“Not if we don’t go today, you won’t see anything,” Margolotta declared. “It’s supposed to be hotter tomorrow, without clouds. It’ll be a mud patch by Friday, I bet you.”

It was _ we _ , not _ ve _ in close company. There was no need for the affectation of an exaggerated accent around an old friend.

“More oatmeal?” she added kindly, pushing the tureen slightly closer to his side of the table.

“Quite full, thank you,” Vetinari replied, shaking his head.

She gave his small bowl a doubtful look, but turned to his secretary.

“And you, dear?”

Drumknott did not jerk awake. It was a gentle drift. The chairs at the breakfast table were ancient, solid things, high-backed and with the sides built up too, so that there was just enough smooth wood panelling to lean one’s head on the side, whether deliberately or due to exhaustion. The chairs reminded him, not of cocoons, but of some sort of cozy half-shell, probably belonging to a very large mollusc, or at least one larger than him. His mental images became more vivid between wakefulness and sleep.

“Yes, my lady?” he asked.

“Oatmeal,” she said. “There’s enough left for seconds.” 

“Though very few of its dried peaches or strawberries remain, because someone’s been playing at St Ossory’s _ miraculous catch _,” Vetinari added, casting an amused glance at Margolotta, who did not react in any way.

“I’ll take some more anyway, thank you,” Drumknott answered, stifling a yawn.

Margolotta scooped some onto his bowl, and resumed her conversation with Vetinari.

“Anyway, there’s two trails to the peak,” she continued. “There’s a longer, cooler one through the forest, but it’s faster to walk up the old hewn steps. There’s trollish carvings on the step-path, and you see all sorts of little plants in the rock cracks. But the–what’s it called–you know, the fragrant shrub? I’m not sure it has a name in Morporkian. That’s in bloom in the forest, currently. So the forest trail would also be nice.”

“You don’t mean weddingbrush, do you?” asked Vetinari.

Margolotta snapped her fingers.

“That’s the one, yes.”

“Oh,” she added, remembering.

“Right,” he said.

“Your hay fever, yes. We can’t have that. Stone step trail it is, then. Are you coming, Mr Drumknott?”

“Hrmm?” Drumknott answered intelligently.

“Leave him be, Margot,” Vetinari said softly. “He’s exhausted.”

The stagecoach had pulled into the Kuchenschloss’s stables rather late last night, but that wasn’t the sole reason he was tired. It had been too hot to sleep, and the mechanism in the ceiling fan in his guest bedroom was broken. He’d contemplated stripping down to his underlinens, but that wasn’t _ proper _. Suppose one of the Igors or other staff walked in? Suppose–and this thought made him blush–Lord Vetinari needed him for something, and saw him semi-clothed? He couldn’t be having with that. 

Margolotta had suggested hauling the bed from his room to Vetinari’s, which _ did _ have a working fan, but Drumknott had demurred at that. She was all for proper feudal spirit, she’d said, but did it really, actually matter? No one would say anything. Nevertheless, Drumknott had said in response, and you couldn’t really argue with nevertheless, so she’d told him to suit himself.

“So he’s not coming on the hike, then,” Margolotta said.

“I don’t presume to speak for Mr Drumknott,” Vetinari said, “but I wouldn’t count on it.”

“I’d better take some of the krupnik and plum-wine out of the picnic basket, then,” Margolotta said. “Not very fair to him if we drink all of it.”

“He doesn’t drink,” Vetinari reminded her.

It was a mere statement of fact, but Margolotta took it as a suggestion that they drink his portion for themselves, and let out a short, sharp laugh.

“I’m not carrying you down the mountain, Havelock!”

“Rest assured, I don’t intend to _ need _ to be carried down the mountain.”

“You mark he said that, Drumknott,” she said.

“ ’ll do,” Drumknott mumbled, trying very hard to keep his eyes open and focused.

“Don’t pester the man,” Vetinari tutted. 

He stood and grasped Drumknott gingerly by the arm. The touch alone jolted Drumknott’s heartbeat. 

“I am so sorry, my lord,” he said clearly, fully conscious now.

But Vetinari just waved a thin hand.

“Why don’t you have a lie-down?” he suggested delicately. “There’ll be no risk of falling face-first in your food on a nice couch.”

Drumknott reddened, but nodded in agreement, and excused himself.

☼

They’d already gone by the time he woke up. Judging by the clock in the entry hall, (which wasn’t much to go by since, to Drumknott’s irritation, it ran slow and was rarely tuned,) it was some time past eleven. 

The ancient doorbell rang, and Drumknott rose to peer through the window beside the door to see who was there.

A thin, dark-haired young human woman stood on the flagstones. She looked down her nose at Drumknott as sternly as she could muster. The brim of her sunhat was soaked through.

“_ Ich habe die Erlaubnis der Dame, die Bibliothek zu benutzen _ ,” she snapped, when Drumknott made no move towards the door-handle. “ _ Du musst mich reinlassen _.”

He parsed this slowly. Lady’s permission...use the library. He noted the girl had addressed him with the form of “you” that was either very casual and friendly (unlikely, given everything about her deportment) or reserved for children and servants. 

Drumknott frowned, and the young woman sagged and produced a letter from her leather bag that did indeed bear Margolotta’s seal.

He let her in. 

“_ Sind Sie neu hier? _” she asked, a little more politely, once she had stepped into the cool of the building.

“No,” said Drumknott. “In fact, I don’t work here at all. Erm, I mean, _ ich bin der _, er, clerk–”

“_Der_ _Sekretär_,” she supplied helpfully.

“–_ des Patriziers von Ankh-Morpork. _”

Her eyes widened and she put a hand over her mouth.

“My apologies,” she said in slow, but clearly pronounced Morporkian. “You are here on business? On holiday?”

“Not at liberty to discuss,” Drumknott said curtly.

“Fair,” she said, nodding. “Fair.”

“Alina Healstether,” she added, extending a hand.

Drumknott shook her hand and gave her his name as well.

“I am–” here she paused, trying to find the right word, “I research history. Lady Margolotta has some excellent manuscripts from the years of the 1400s. Is she in?”

Miss Healstether was peering over his shoulder, as if trying to catch a glimpse of her.

“She’s not, no.”

Her face fell into an expression that Drumknott could only describe as crestfallen.

“Does she have a key or something that you need to get into the library?”

Miss Healstether shook her head.

“No, no, I was just hoping that I would see her.”

“I see,” said Drumknott.

“Her er, insight is very helpful sometimes. Being a vampire, of course, she has been present for a lot of the events of the past,” Miss Healstether added quickly.

“I see.”

“And of course, the language of the period, you know. I do have some training, but occasionally there are hapaxes.” 

She paused here, presuming he hadn’t understood. “You know,” she continued, “like very rare, old words which do not appear in dictionaries.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of them. I can only imagine how valuable Her Ladyship’s linguistic assistance must be,” Drumknott said politely.

“Sure,” Miss Healstether said flatly, to her credit. But her face went slightly pinker, which told him this particular lever-finding game was over, and far, far too simple. She was young, in the intoxicating headspace of a fresh romance, genuinely excited by her field of scholarship, and she wore her levers on her sleeve. It was probably fun to live like that. Drumknott was sure he wouldn’t know.

“Well, it’s been nice to meet you,” she said, itching to get to the books.

“Right,” he said, “likewise.” 

The young woman hurried off into the widdershins wing of the castle, leaving Drumknott alone once more. 

It was Lady Margolotta’s way to take in young women as protegées, the more smitten with her the better, generously make them happy for a decade or two–a mere fling in vampire years–, and move on. She’d done so before taking the ribbon, too, only they hadn’t lasted as long then. It was only ever humans. Never other vampires. You had to be choosier with vampires. You’d still have to see them in the next century, which could get awkward if things didn’t work out. 

But she liked the trappings of romance: flowers, candles, nightgowns, poetry. Though this last one, she’d admitted after a few drinks once, was a mere alchemical formula. Words go in, clothes come off. Simple.

This had been a couple years ago, on their last holiday to Uberwald.

Vetinari had disagreed. He was in a philosophical mood. Writing was not an alchemical formula. It didn’t happen by itself.

But there were formulas involved, yes? Margolotta had argued. Metres, structures, genres. Cliches, even, which became hammers and screwdrivers in the toolbox of communication if they were good or merely popular enough.

She was equivocating the terms, he’d said. And poetry, if it was meant to remove anything, was meant to remove the integuments of the soul, or whatever it was that stopped people from understanding each other.

A sap, she’d called him. He didn’t even _ believe _ in the soul. And if there was a soul and it had integuments, then surely they were there for protection. It wouldn’t to do go about shucking it.

Then they’d asked Drumknott what he thought of all this, and he’d said something jokey quickly, to get out of the spotlight.

“You’re right, Mr Drumknott,” Margolotta had said cheerfully, “poetry _ should _ only be about trees.”

“Specifically birches,” he’d added, pushing his luck.

Margolotta had snorted wine out of her nose, and Vetinari had soberly offered her a napkin.

“I think I see why you keep him around,” she’d said.

“I think,” he’d said, “that you are inebriated.”

☼

After parting from Miss Healstether, Drumknott made his way back to his guest room, retrieved a mildly interesting book he’d been reading, and retreated to Margolotta’s chintzy sitting room. 

Margolotta’s pet, a light brown four-pound pouch rat with a pink ribbon around its neck, sauntered up amiably to Drumknott’s lap. Drumknott didn’t mind. He was accustomed to dealing with the rodent division of the Palace intelligence agency, though they tended to behave more professionally. Mr Skrp, for instance, would never dream of licking Drumknott’s fingers or sticking his nose in Drumknott’s pockets to look for crumbs. Martina had no such qualms, but gave up after a minute of fruitless search, curled up next to his thigh, chittered happily at some scratches behind the ear, and let Drumknott get on with his reading.

☼

In the best tradition of picnics, Margolotta and Vetinari had brought the sandwich fillings separately from the bread, so that it wouldn’t get soggy. It was rather good bread.

“Imelda’s recipe,” Margolotta explained, piling her sandwich with smoked ham. “Or my closest approximation. She’s not around anymore, which is a shame. Pass the horseradish?”

“My deep condolences,” Vetinari said, handing her the jar. “I didn’t know she had been ill.”

“Oh, no, no, she’s fine. We just don’t see each other anymore. But she asked me to make her a vampire. Can you believe the nerve?”

“Is that so bad?” asked Vetinari. He filled his sandwich with tomatoes and reached for the pesto.

“Yes, it is. Yes, of course it’s bad! It’s presumptuous. ‘Wouldn’t mind staying forever,’ she said. And I told her, you know, about the burden of immortality. What does she know about ‘forever’? She’d tire of m—of it in a century.”

“But you’ve offered _ me _ the burden of immortality, Margot,” he pointed out.

“And you always say no,” she said wistfully. “But that’s different. One, you’re not stupid. Two, you’re not in love with me.”

“I’m flattered,” Vetinari joked, “that you think those are my best qualities.”

“Oh yes,” she said, deadpan, “and third, a registered member of the Fools’ Guild.”

The steam continued to rise off the lake. Margolotta had been right, he thought. It was an interesting sight. He wondered in how many years the lake would be completely gone.

It was hot out. He had a sip of water. Margolotta poured herself some plum wine in a small ceramic cup.

She was unbothered by the heat. She was eleven degrees cooler than the air around, she always said, like marble, except that wasn’t true about marble, but she’d been saying it so long that learning the fact had changed nothing. Strong light was what bothered vampires, and so she was covered up to keep herself comfortable. In her wide-brimmed hat, long sleeves, and gloves, she looked a little bit like a beekeeper.

He’d bring up turning back, soon, Vetinari thought to himself, because the heat was starting to bother his head. He thought they ought to head back through the forest, allergies be stuffed, because at least it was shaded.

Nevertheless, he thought, he could endure it a little while longer. There were very few things to endure that couldn’t be endured a little while longer.

“So, what’s new?” she asked.

“I have some plans for the mint and bank,” Vetinari said, “and I think the von Lipwig fellow would be suited to them.”

“No, no,” she said, waving a hand, “tell me things I won’t get in the paper or from spies.”

“My dog has been ill. It’s the valves in his heart, apparently. They don’t close properly, or something like that. I’ve moved my bedroom to the first floor, temporarily, since he can’t climb stairs anymore.”

“That’s sad, Havelock,” she said, staring at her cup. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you. I shall miss him. Though, to be honest, I’m quite prepared for it. He’s very old, for a dog. He has been quite old for quite a while.”

“Still,” Margolotta said, “sorry.”

She stretched out on the grass, taking care to keep her face covered with her sun hat. 

“But what else is new?” she asked. “Is there anything nice? Or anyone nice?”

“Yes. Here’s something nice: I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m currently on holiday in Uberwald.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I’m afraid I really have nothing else to report.”

“Gods,” she said. “Look, I know there’s things you enjoy.”

“Crossword puzzles.” 

“No, not like that. You can’t just– you can’t just not let yourself have things you want, just because you want them. That doesn’t make them bad.”

“If there are things I can do without, then they are not truly necessary,” Vetinari said.

“Things don’t have to be necessary to be _ good _ , or good _ for _ you. What about that man you sent as a diplomat up here a couple years ago? He was nice. Seemed your type, I mean. Reminded me a bit of that man you told me about when you were young. That sergeant, the one who died.”

“Hah,” Vetinari said drily. “Funny thing, that.”

“Oh,” said Margolotta. “Oh no, they weren’t related, were they? It happens all the time. I knew this woman Tatiana, once, and seventy years later, her granddaughter’s trying to chat me up. It’s so awkward. So, not him.”

“No, not him. Also, I’m pretty sure you met _ his wife _ as well.”

“Oh, _ marriage _,” she said, shrugging dismissively. “Well, what about Drumknott?”

“What about him?”

“How’s he?” 

“You saw him this morning.”

Margolotta tapped her pointed, vampiric ears.

“Well, you know, he either likes you too, or–”

“Or he has an incredibly improbable heart rhythm problem, yes, I know, you’ve said that before.”

“What are you waiting for?”

Vetinari took a slow sip of the rest of his water, wished he’d brought more, and thought about retreating to the shade.

“He’s got to start it, not me. That’s not the easy answer, I’m afraid. It’s the difficult one. It is, as it happens, a matter to which I have given sufficient thought.”

Margolotta sat up, and adjusted her sun hat.

“Is it about power?” she asked. They didn’t share all the same views about power.

“It’s partly about power,” Vetinari said, nodding.

Wordlessly, she handed him a clean napkin from the basket, and he used it to wipe the sweat from his face.

“It wouldn’t be so wrong, though,” Margolota said gently, kindly. 

“Margot, I am his _ boss _. It would–” his head was swimming, now, and all the language in it had gone wavy, like a convection current.

“It _ would _ be,” he finished lamely.

“Even just a hint? Think of it this way,”

Margolotta said something else that he couldn’t quite catch.

“Hmm,” he answered.

“Havelock?” she said, sounding oddly distant.

“Ought to head back,” he said, but the words came out muddled.

She sprang to her feet.

“_ Havelock _?” she said again, with much more alarm.

Vetinari rose to his feet, swayed a bit, and returned, face-first, to the ground.

☼

Drumknott assumed he needn’t wait for them to return for lunch, since Margolotta had mentioned a picnic basket before heading on the hike. Instead, he joined the Igors downstairs in their dining room for cold spiced lentils in chicken broth, and a light salad. They were quite at ease with his presence, but Drumknott found their conversation difficult to keep up with, and was content to remain quiet with his thoughts. 

A few minutes in, without warning, three Igors looked at each other in alarm, pushed back their stools, and ran in the direction of the front entrance.

“Excuse me,” asked Drumknott, “What’s happening?”

Another Igor, whom Drumknott had mentally nicknamed Brown Eye Green Eye, told him.

“Her Ladyship’th back. It’th probably too high-pitched for you to hear, but it’th jutht the medical bell.”

There were many things Igor could have said that would have been reassuring to Drumknott. This was not one of them. He too pushed back his stool and ran.

Margolotta stood at the end of the foyer, framed by the doorway. She was levitating slightly, because she was not a tall person, and the man she was carrying, partly draped sideways over one shoulder, _ was _. 

“My lord!” Drumknott cried.

Vetinari looked up. He was conscious, but not looking very well. His face was pale, and beaded with sweat.

Two Igors took his arms and lifted him off Margolotta’s shoulders. He protested weakly that he was fine while Margolotta spoke quickly to a third Igor about “humans” and “temperature” and “my mistake” and “stupid shit-damn sun.”

“Take him somewhere cold,” Margolotta ordered the first two.

“I can walk,” Vetinari said.

Margolotta sighed and looked directly at Drumknott.

“Was he like that when he was shot too?”

But she didn’t give him time to answer. Instead, she turned to an Igorina who had silently entered the hall.

“And you,” she said, “get a camp bed into the cellar.”

“Yeth mithtreth,” she said, “right away. I wath jutht coming to tell you that Mith Healschtether ith waiting for you in the library.”

“Send Alina home in my carriage,” Margolotta said irritably. “I don’t have the time. Igor can get the camp bed.”

“Yeth mithtreth,” they said.

Vetinari had broken free of the two other Igors’ grip, and was sitting on a bench with his head between his knees, dry heaving.

Margolotta took Drumknott’s arm, dragged him a few steps over, and held it out in front of Vetinari. He picked up his cane, took Drumknott’s arm, and followed her to the cellar.

☼

Crates of onions and root vegetables had been moved from the back wall of the cellar to make room for the camp bed against the wall. Lord Vetinari sat on it, propped up on three pillows, awake, but with his eyes screwed shut. His head throbbed badly. Someone had pressed a glass of cold water into his hands, with the injunction to take “thmall thipth,” but it hadn’t been plain water, it had been a sugary, salted water, so he’d winced and handed the glass off to Drumknott.

“It’th thith or intravenouth, thir.”

“Really?” he said. “My word.”

Vetinari was vaguely aware of hands removing his shoes, braces, and waistcoat.

“What are you _ doing? _” Drumknott sputtered.

“Thith ith what’th done for thomeone who’s heat thick,” Igor answered.

“I’d hardly call myself thick,” Vetinari said.

Not a single person in the room laughed. Something sloshed in a bowl, and a cold, wet towel was pressed to his forehead.

“My thanks,” he said.

“You might have said something sooner,” Margolotta said.

“I was enjoying the hike.”

Margolotta was quiet. Then, because she realized his eyes were closed, she said,

“I’m shaking my head, you know.”

“Good to know,” said Vetinari.

“We ought to let him thleep,” Igor said.

“Yeth,” a different Igor chimed in. “Help him out of that shirt, pleathe.”

A pause.

“We can’t put the needle for the fluidth through hith thleeve, Mithter Drumknott.”

“Fine,” a small voice said.

Vetinari sat up a bit to assist them, and his head swam again.

Later, he was aware of a jab on the inside of his arm, and a cool, soothing sensation slowly spreading from that point. He drifted off to sleep.

☼

Drumknott sat up with Lord Vetinari well into the evening. Margolotta invited him to join her on the terrace, but he wouldn’t budge.

“Are you anxious?” she asked, more to make conversation than to find out. She could hear his heartbeat.

“I’m not,” Drumknott said.

“This happens to humans all the time,” Margolotta said gently. “He’ll be feeling perfectly normal when he wakes up.”

“Yes, I know that,” said Drumknott. 

The drip bag had been removed by now, and Vetinari lay on his side, in his preferred sleeping position. Drumknott wrung out the wet towel draped on Vetinari’s back and re-wet it in the bowl of ice water before replacing it.

“You’re excessively loyal,” she said, after a few seconds of silence.

“Thank you.”

“Is it a compliment?”

“I shall take it as one nonetheless,” Drumknott said levelly.

“Very well. Do you intend to stay here till your master wakes up?”

“That is my plan, yes.”

“Suit yourself, then,” she said, and left them alone in the cellar.

☼

There wasn’t much light in the cellar by which to judge the passage of time, but it felt like the middle of the night for certain, and it felt cold. There was a weight beside him on the bed. Vetinari reached out blindly for a blanket and grabbed something made of cloth. He pulled it towards him, but it was heavy, so he pulled more firmly. It made a snoring sound. Ergo, it was not a blanket, but it was warm enough anyway, so he handled it into a better position for keeping his back warm and settled back to sleep.

☼

Drumknott dreamt of his employer. It was a simple, deep, plotless dream, mostly involving flashes of sensation. Tangled limbs, the scratch of Lord Vetinari’s beard on his palm, and the earthy, human scent of his scalp. All told, it was a nice dream, and extraordinarily vivid. Drumknott was just conscious enough to be aware that he was dreaming, so he made an effort to stay asleep, and stay in that place before it slipped from his mind. Pleasantly, it wasn’t fading, and it remained surprisingly coherent. 

“Thank you for staying,” a voice said.

“’F course,” Drumknott mumbled.

A hand stroked his hair, and he leaned towards it.

It felt amazingly real, he noticed. This was for the very good reason that it was completely real. He panicked, silently and without moving, for a few seconds until he dared to open his eyes.

“I’m heartily sorry, sir,” he began, “I’ve overstepped my bounds.”

“About time too,” said Vetinari. “It wouldn’t have been suitable for _ me _ to slip into _ your _ bed.”

The mental image hit him square in the chest and mugged him for all his verbal faculties before he could protest that he _ hadn’t _slipped into Vetinari’s bed. At least, he didn’t remember doing so.

“Mh,” said Drumknott.

Vetinari propped himself up on his side, and lit a lamp perched on a makeshift side table made out of a crate of cantaloupes. Save for his drawers, he was nude, but showed so little self-consciousness of the fact that it took Drumknott a second to remember to turn his gaze away.

“You’re allowed to see me,” Vetinari said softly.

Drumknott made himself look, and swallowed. He’d never seen so much of Vetinari at once. It was dizzying, and made his skin warm and tight.

“But– people oughtn’t slip into each other’s beds,” Drumknott said, when he managed to speak.

“Not in Ankh-Morpork, no, but this is gothic country. All is forgiven. When in Reme–”

Vetinari sat up, grimaced, and lay back down on the bed.

“What is it?” asked Drumknott.

“My head, I’m afraid. It’s far better than yesterday, but it could be better. Is there any of that vile salt-and-sugar water left? I fear I may have to take some after all.”

The glass wasn’t on the floor next to the foot of his chair where Drumknott had left it last night. In fact, it was neatly placed on the seat of the chair, which confirmed his suspicions.

“Look, the thing is–” Drumknott began.

Vetinari swished the water in the glass around and started to drink it.

“The thing is, I didn’t lie down here. I’m quite certain I fell asleep sitting up in the chair.”

Vetinari froze and closed his eyes. After a second, he placed the glass on the crate by the bed, got up, found his clothes, and began to dress, facing away from the bed. Drumknott got up too, but Vetinari put up a thin hand to halt him, without turning around.

“No,” he said, sternly, “don’t follow me. I’m about to have a private word with our host.”

☼

The dim, pale light filtering through the windows upstairs told Vetinari that it was just barely dawn. No one in the household seemed to have risen yet. Silently, on bare feet, he stole into the crypt, and rapped on Lady Margolotta’s coffin lid.

The lid moved aside on well-oiled hinges, and Margolotta sat up. She wore a wrinkled white pyjama with a pale pink butcherbird motif. The lines of her pillow were marked on her cheek.

“You’re better,” she said happily, and then took a closer look.

Her friend wasn’t quick to anger. He wasn’t even slow to anger. When it visited him, he kept it tamed. Strong emotion was seldom useful, he always said. She could still tell it was there, though.

“Something’s wrong,” Margolotta said.

“Meddling,” Vetinari said, “is wrong.”

Margolotta said,

“What meddling?”

☼

_ She said, _

_ no, of course not, no I don’t presume to know what’s best for you no i wouldn’t do that i draw the line at interfering i neither did it nor gave the order i’ll get to the bottom of this i’m so sorry _

☼

“You can come out of the thellar now, Mithter Drumknott,” said a woman’s voice.

He tiptoed out of the room, embarrassed, and made a beeline for his guest bedroom. Partly, it was because he was still in yesterday’s rumpled clothes, and wanted to change into something fresh, and partly, it was because he had the sense that something had gone amiss, and that it had to do with him, and whether or not it was well-considered, he wanted to remove himself from the situation.

Someone stopped him just before the top of the stairs.

“Did you, er,” Drumknott said, looking up at him. “Did you have you have your word with Lady Margolotta?”

“I did. We resolved some questions.”

Drumknott didn’t respond. He was, Vetinari noticed, waiting for him to continue. With a flash of pride, he realized that Drumknott had learned that trick from him.

“It was Igor. No, not Igor, his cousin, Igor. He saw you asleep in the chair with your neck bent to the side and he laid you down. It was of his own initiative. There was only harmless intent. Our host had nothing to do with it.”

A nod was Drumknott’s only response.

“She’s gone into town,” continued Vetinari, “which, by chance, happens to grant us some privacy.”

“What for?”

“That is entirely up to us. I am, however, open to your suggestions.”

“It isn’t my place, sir.” 

“I’d like us to be equals here, Drumknott. No sirs here.”

“I might be able to manage that. But– when we return to the city?”

Vetinari paused.

“Are you asking what title you should use for me in the office, or are you asking something else?”

“I am asking,” said Drumknott carefully, “if you intend for what happens in Reme to stay in Reme, or whether it may follow us home. I am asking because whatever it is we embark on, I do not intend to take it lightly.”

Drumknott wanted to be clearer. He wanted to say, without implying anything cruel about anyone, that he did not want to be like a young woman content with merely her grand lady’s body and library. He wanted to say something, to show that he’d been listening a couple years earlier, and that he still remembered, about the integuments of the heart.

He said none of these things.

“And what is it you would like to embark on? Ask.”

“I couldn’t possibly ask.”

“Will it help to know that the answer is yes?”

This wasn’t a test. This was real, and it was allowed. It was like getting into a cold pool. No sense in wading in. All at once, or nothing. Now, or not at all.

“I’m not very good with words,” Drumknott said.

His thoughts were all tangled together. Might as well be hanged for a penny– no, the saying went, in for a lamb– no, no.

He pushed past Vetinari on the stairs till he was standing on the step above him. Then, Drumknott put a hand on his waist and pulled his body closer.

Drumnkott kissed him. Drumknott kissed like an ex-monk. He kissed like someone who believed that they could either permit themselves no good things, or permit themselves all of them, because once you started to pick and choose, order and balance were gone. The dial had shifted entirely towards all.

He also kissed like someone who wasn’t very good at it, but Vetinari matched his intensity and hunger. 

They stopped for breath.

“Thank you, Drumknott,” Vetinari said, with unexpected tenderness in his voice.

“I think you ought to call me Rufus,” Drumknott said resolutely.

“I shall.”

**Author's Note:**

> I love comments


End file.
